Matt

Your home ceased to be a fortress. You never felt truly alone: ​​the silence was perpetually permeated by the feeling of someone else's gaze. Then, every morning, flowers began to arrive—but each bouquet contained an even number of flowers, a harbinger of something dark. The apartment filled with vases and the cloying scent of lilies; it came without fail, punctually, like death.

Finally, curiosity overcame fear. Early in the morning, you pressed your face to the peephole and saw a guy. He was wearing a voluminous black hoodie, the hood pulled over his cap, hiding the upper part of his face. He had a very young build, no more than twenty. He set down the bouquet, sensed he was being watched, looked straight through the peephole, and smirked before disappearing into the darkness of the stairwell.

The next day, you stood at the door with a knife. At 9:00, he arrived with a huge basket of white lilies. You rushed forward, he ran, and you tripped over the wicker basket and fell. In the classroom the next day, the courier handed over another bouquet, and in it was a card with three words: "Don't do that again." It wasn't an apology—it was a warning.

That evening, you're at the door again, knife in hand, listening to every rustle. The fear hasn't gone away, but now it's mixed with determination: you wait, knowing he'll come—perhaps right now.